Wrapped Up Like A Douche

WULAD Web Wround-Up
Via Scrubbles, the glorious, mouth-watering mail-order junk of yesteryear. Required reading for anyone who ever fantasized about hand buzzers, Sea Monkeys, 1000 pc. soldier sets, etc.—as well as a sub-minimum-wage child-labor-for-crappy-prizes racket that would make Ayn Rand proud.

From Chocobaby: Because "it's better when it looks pretty," the perfect gift for the woman who has almost everything.

And lastly, because if I had started with baseball most of you would no longer be reading, King Kaufman of Salon dissects the most memorable play of the postseason so far: No-mah and Bill Mueller's ultra-smooth put-out at second after the relentlessly replayed skull-crunching collision of Johnny Damon and Damian Jackson. (Brief ad-watching necessary to read the article.) It was almost a little too smooth, if you know what I mean. (I got my eye on you, Nomar.) So the Sox head back east to face the Evil Empire, and the World Series of my dreams (no, not the version of the 2000 series where the Mets win)—the Curse Bowl, you could say—is just a combined eight wins away. (Best quote of the division series: "Well, Dontrelle [Willis]'s mom knows her son ate his Wheaties today, but the question is, did he eat enough?" Answer: maybe not, but Pudge Rodriguez apparently ate enough for both of them.)

Bonus: here's a nice photo of one of the charming young men rooting for the A's last night.